


Dinner, Music, and Dancing: An Unusual Graduation Gift

by Gaslight Dreamer (wyntirrose)



Series: Medical Psychology [1]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: M/M, Pre-Earth Transformers, Prostitution, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-06-09
Packaged: 2018-06-09 06:30:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6893857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/pseuds/Gaslight%20Dreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ratchet has finally graduated from the Institute as a fully credited medic. He had been expecting his friends to throw him a party. Instead he finds an unusual gift standing on his doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introductions

Ratchet dropped the certification on the counter, grabbed a cube of mid-grade, and collapsed onto a nearby couch. He had done it. He had finally graduated from the Academy as a fully sanctioned medical practitioner and his friends were nowhere around to help him celebrate. They had known that today was the day, that he had wanted to celebrate in style, but then at the very last possible minute, they had all backed out with other plans. He had hoped that this was all just a poorly planned out surprise party - after all, Wheeljack had access to his quarters. But then he had gotten home to an empty apartment and no sign of any party at all.

"Fine," he muttered to himself. "I needed a recovery day anyways."

He sipped at the cube and stared at the wall, debating on what to do with himself, when a knock on the door broke the silence.

"Better late than never, I guess," Ratchet muttered as he got up and walked to the door.

"About time you guys got here," he said as he palmed the door open.

"Funny. I was of the impression I was a surprise," the mech at the door said with a smile.

This was not one of Ratchet's friends or Academy-mates. The Praxian standing in the doorway was about a head shorter than Ratchet, and was brightly painted in red, blue, black, and white with a yellow chevron. Two large black '38's were emblazoned onto white fields on his doors. He was newly polished and smelled clean and sharp like wax and high end cleanser. And his smile was seriously compelling.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Ratchet asked as soon as he was able to drag his optics away from the other mech's rather large chest. It wasn't as prominent as the chests of some Praxians, but it was definitely full and well shaped, and it showed off his headlights perfectly.

The mech's smile somehow managed to become wider as he noticed the obvious gaze.

"Smokescreen," he said, offering a blue hand. "Your friends have hired me as part of your graduation present. Apparently they thought you'd like a high end ultra-elite dinner, a box at Blaster's latest concert, and some company until the morning shifts start."

Ratchet shook is head and cycled his optics. "Wait, they bought me some shareware?"

The smile instantly disappeared, the proffered hand was withdrawn, and the blue optics became hard. In fact, everything about Smokescreen grew hard - even his doors seemed to vibrate in stiff irritation.

"I am an _escort_. A rather _exclusive_ escort at that. I am _not_ some piece of street walking shareware who'll spread for anyone who feeds me a goodie. And we might want to take this discussion inside. Your neighbor has been watching us through the peep hole from the moment I knocked on your door."

Smokescreen turned slightly and waved his fingers cheerily in the direction of the opposite door. Ratchet heard a soft crash and he was sure that Tailgunner was falling away from the door in a rush. The mech had to be one of the nosiest beings Ratchet had ever met.

Ratchet looked away and moved out of the doorway, making a sweeping gesture to invite Smokescreen in.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to offend. I'm just a little thrown off by this," he said. "I had no idea this was coming and this isn't normally my thing. My so-called friends know that."

By the time Smokescreen was fully in the apartment, his smile was back in place.

"I understand," he said. "Have to say, I'm a little surprised that your friends would drop this kind of funding on something that you might not like. But it's no chrome off my bumper," he added with a slight arching of his doors.

Ratchet couldn’t take his optics off the appendages. They seemed to have a life of their own, adding to every move and word.

Smokescreen made no attempt to come further into the space, nor did he look around too much. Everything about him was professional and business-like, and it was beginning to put Ratchet a little more at ease. A little, but not enough to make him want to be a part of any of this.

"So," Smokescreen continued as he pulled a data pan out of subspace, "your friends are quite generous. They've bought you the forty-seven course tasting menu dinner at the Starlines Club, box seats at Blaster's latest concert, and my company for the night. All you need to do is sign off that you've received the offer and all funds are transferred to the appropriate people."

"And if I don't want this?" Ratchet asked as he accepted the data pad.

Again, those elegant doors arched and fluttered and again Ratchet was mesmerized. "Then you check off that you decline, you sign your glyph, and we all get paid anyways. I go home, the Starlines rebooks the table they're holding, and the Symphonia sells the box to someone else. Actually, if you turn this down, everyone gets paid twice. So there's that to consider."

Ratchet scanned the contract and what Smokescreen was saying seemed to be completely true. The buyer was listed as wishing to remain anonymous, but Ratchet suspected that Springheel was responsible as she was the only one with the disposable income to waste it on this. The funds would be withdrawn from her account the moment Ratchet signed his glyph and he would be sent confirmations and tickets. Both in his name, both non-transferable.

“It looks clear,” Ratchet said. “All legit and above board. But this really isn’t my thing, so I’m going to decline. I mean, the dinner and the show sound wonderful, but I just-” He cut himself off and looked up at Smokescreen. “Look, no offense, but this isn’t really my kind of thing. You understand, right?”

Smokescreen’s doors fluttered, almost hypnotic in their smooth movements.

“As I said, no chrome off my bumper. But if I could offer a suggestion,” he said as he carefully placed his hand over the data pad. “Why don’t you agree to the contract and then dismiss me, since I seem to be the part you’re having issues with. I go home and you get to take whoever you want out to dinner and to the show. I hear that the tasting menu has to be experienced to be believed. Apparently they got a whole course devoted to jellied energon served with a variety of metallic emulsions.”

“Why don’t I accept it, give it all to you, and then you can take someone out for the evening?” Ratchet asked. “I mean, sending you home wouldn’t really be fair to you.”

Smokescreen smiled and for the first time since he’d arrived, it seemed genuine.

“That’s really sweet, but I can’t. It’s a precaution in the contract to stop me from taking the package and bolting. Or selling it for profit.”

“Would you do that?” Ratchet asked.

“ _I_ wouldn’t. But I know plenty of others who would. Hence why it’s a standard clause,” Smokescreen replied. “You’ll have to present the tickets and your glyph as proof of your identity. It’s not foolproof, but since glyphs are blasted hard to duplicate or hack, it’s about as safe as reasonable.”

“You sound like you speak from experience,” Ratchet said cautiously.

The genuine smile was replaced by an almost roguish, seductive little come-hither curl of his lips that promised wonderful things if one was willing to partake.

“Maybe,” Smokescreen said. “Or maybe I just have friends in low places who like to talk. Either way, I’m fully warranted and since I intend to stay that way I won’t be stealing from you any time soon. It’s bad for my future prospects.”

Ratchet looked back down at the data pad. Tasting menu dinner for two at the Starlines Club, reservations in the name of Ratchet of Iacon. Private box for two at the Symphonia for Blaster’s Mid-Field Concerto to Solomus, tickets in the name of Ratchet of Iacon. An evening with an employee of Vespertine Escorts to do with as you wish within the confines of said employee’s personal contract, attached. All non-transferrable and non-refundable.

“I’m not seeing your name on here,” Ratchet said. “Why is that?”

“Because I’m the only item on there that is adjustable. If I can’t or won’t provide what you want, or if I’m just not to your liking, I can be traded out for someone else from Vespertine Escorts. My presence specifically isn’t set in the source stone.”

“I see,” Ratchet replied slowly. “And, uhm, what exactly is it that you could provide?”

He flinched internally as the words left his vocalizer. He shouldn’t be asking these questions. He should just be declining the offer and sending Smokescreen away, but there was something compelling about the mech, and he was finding he couldn’t help himself. Primus help him, but he was trying to come up with a reason to accept the entire offer and everything that went with it.

“Anything you want, with a few small exceptions. I don’t do bondage, I neither hit nor am I hit, and I don’t do the master-slave dynamic. Oh, and no rape fantasies. Other than that, anything goes,” Smokescreen said, his doors rising and falling slightly. “But if those are some of the things you want to explore, I’ve got a friend who’s available tonight. She can help you out and I think you’d like her. She’s a light-build flyer but she can take anything you throw at her. Both in terms of give and take. She’s seriously flexible,” he added with a smile that spoke of many levels of double entendre.

“No, that’s fine. You’re - you’re just fine,” Ratchet said, never looking up. “So, uhm, if I asked you to stay and just wanted to talk, that’d be okay?”

“It’s your shannix. Well, your friend’s shannix. Either way, yes, we can talk. In fact, just talking is one of the things I excel at,” Smokescreen said casually. “So, are you going to accept? Because if not, I’m sure that the Starlines would like to give your table away.”

Ratchet looked at Smokescreen then at the data pad. It was just dinner, a show, and someone to talk to. Someone _very_ attractive to talk to. Nothing more than that. Just a night out. With the decision made, Ratchet accepted the offer and placed his glyph on the appropriate line before handing the pad back to Smokescreen.

“Come on,” he said, offering his arm to Smokescreen. “Let’s go take advantage of the evening my friends decided to buy us.”


	2. Dinner

The Starlines Club was as exclusive and high end as all the reviews said. The walls and floor were made of polished, brushed blue steel and the space was decorated with carefully manicured Praxian crystals that glowed with a faint, pulsing light. Even the space smelled high end - a pleasant scent of sweet smelling welding fumes and a hint of ozone. It would have been perfect, if not for the host giving Smokescreen a look that spoke of nothing but barely hidden disdain.

“We acknowledge your reservations, sir, but I must say that this is highly irregular. We do not normally-”

“Is there a problem?” Ratchet asked as he stepped forward to loom over the other mech, effectively cutting him off.

“Not a problem, per se, sir,” the host said. He was clearly attempting a look that was both unfazed and aloof, but both Smokescreen and Ratchet noticed when the matte black plating pulled in tight against his protoform. “It’s just that your _guest_ is-”

“My _guest_ is just fine,” Ratchet replied sharply, his own plating beginning to flare out aggressively. “In fact I would think that seeing as this establishment is being paid an obscene amount for-”

Smokescreen effectively cut Ratchet off with a gentle hand on his arm.

“Ratchet, it’s all right,” he said, never looking at the host. “I’m sure that Redox didn’t mean anything. After all, the last thing he wants is a complaint lodged against him and his establishment. Complaints could result in bad reviews and negative word of mouth. And any resulting loss of revenue tied back to his words or _actions_ …” He let the thought hang unfinished.

Redox’s gold optics darkened slightly - though Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was out of irritation or embarrassment - and he led them to a private room near the back of the restaurant.

The space was small but comfortable, with a table set for two in the middle of the space and a couch against one wall - both designed to automatically adjust to the user’s scale. The walls were covered in soft grey sound dampening tiles, and and a large painting hung opposite the door. 

“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Redox said stiffly, and Ratchet noticed that he never looked at Smokescreen. “Your personal waiter will be in momentarily with your first course.”

As soon as the door shut, Ratchet turned to Smokescreen.

“Okay, what was that?” he asked, motioning to the door. “Do you know him? I mean, that kind of hostility is just-”

Smokescreen smiled, a wicked little twitch of his lips. “I’m not allowed to speak about the company relationship with any current or former clients. Vespertine Escorts takes client privacy very seriously.”

Ratchet cocked his head to the side slightly. “And yet you just confirmed that he’s a current or former client?”

“I did no such thing,” Smokescreen replied as he sat languidly on the couch. “I commented on company policy. I can hardly be held responsible for you choosing to interpret things differently. Also, I hate that particular brand of hypocrite.”

“I can appreciate that,” Ratchet said as he sat down next to Smokescreen. “But we’re not going to let all that ruin our night, right?”

“I’m certainly not planning on it,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “In fact I’m planning on blocking out everything outside of this room tonight.”

He reached out to take Ratchet’s hand, only to have the newly minted medic pull back carefully.

“Sorry,” Ratchet apologized. “It’s just a medic’s hands are-”

“It’s okay,” Smokescreen said gently. “I’ve spent enough time at the Academy; I should know better than to touch a medic’s hands without permission.”

“What brought you to the Academy?” Ratchet asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. He stood and moved to the table and pulled out a chair for Smokescreen.

“I’m a student there. In the psychology department,” Smokescreen replied as he sat in the proffered seat.

“You don’t hear of many Praxian psychologists,” Ratchet said as he sat across from the other mech. “It’s been my experience that psychology can be a bit more illogical than I would have thought you’d like.”

“For most Praxians, yeah. But I’m not typical.” Smokescreen folded his hands on the table and looked at Ratchet, and in that moment, he was no longer the seductive escort but was instead an enthusiastic student. “I love that the randomness of the Cybertronian processor isn’t actually random when you really get into it. And I love that you can adjust the odds and the probabilities of any event if you know how to manipulate a mech’s viewpoint and thought process.”

Ratchet nodded. He understood the joy getting lost in these specialized fields and sharing that hard earned knowledge with anyone who would listen.

“It's a fascinating field,” he agreed. “I took a couple of credits, but I was always better suited to surgeries. And I had a lot of trouble reconciling some of the Froidian philosophies with the realities of the world.”

“I can understand that. I tend to prefer behaviourism myself. Yeah, Froid and his theories are fine if you want to force changes in a mech, but I figure there has to be a subtler way to enact behavioural changes. Something other than outright mnemosurgery.”

“You don't agree with Trepan then?” Ratchet asked, and Smokescreen suddenly stilled, as if he realized he was saying something he shouldn't. 

“No, it's not that. After all, both Froid’s and Trepan’s work have been proven many times. I'm just not convinced that mnemosurgery should be the first recourse. But then again, I'm just a student, and no matter how much I admire the work of other, less well published psychologists, I have to learn the _accepted_ methods first.”

“Well I'm sure you'll get to the point where you're publishing your own theories and students will be arguing the merits,” Ratchet said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood back down, but Smokescreen was well ahead of him.

“So,” he asked, and he was back to the seductive escort persona, “what got you into surgery, Ratchet? Choice or build? I imagine that with those lovely hands, you're perfect for the field.”

Ratchet looked down at his hands momentarily then back at Smokescreen. “I was forged, so I suppose I could have chosen anything, any field I liked, but medicine always called to me.”

“They say the best medics are forged,” Smokescreen replied. He was about to say more but the door slid open and a server entered with a large tray balanced precariously on one hand.

“Gentlemechs, these are your first five courses.” He began to place small plates in front of the diners, explaining each as he did. “The chief chemist advises that you consume the purified lowgrade first, followed by the jellied oil emulsion, the rarified midgrade with processed rust flakes, and end with the engex bathed in Vosian hydrox.”

“And this is only the _first_ five courses?” Ratchet asked, incredulous. If these were just the start, he was having trouble imagining how the meal could get any better.

“Yes, sir,” the server replied with a slight nod. “And we understand that you have tickets for the Symphonia later. We will ensure that your courses are served with appropriate speed without rushing you in any way.”

With that the server departed, leaving them to their meal.

“This looks wonderful,” Smokescreen said. “As lovely as everything I've heard about this place.”

Ratchet nodded, making a mental note to have a talk with Springheel about her over generosity. Yes this was wonderful, but it really was too much.

\---

By the time they were almost done with their meal, Ratchet had relaxed and and he and Smokescreen were talking like old friends - relaxed and casual with just a little mutual flirting. The conversation had covered much of their lives, although Ratchet couldn’t help but notice that Smokescreen was getting far more information than he was giving. While Smokescreen answered every question he was asked (and there were many), it seemed that he managed to turn every question back onto Ratchet and eventually the medic had told Smokescreen almost everything.

“Okay, so why the 38?” Ratchet asked.

“Why not? It’s a good number,” Smokescreen replied with a smile. When it became clear that Ratchet wanted more, he elaborated. “It’s the 11th distinct semiprime. It’s nontotient. It’s the sum of the square of the first three primes. It’s the largest even number which can’t be written as the sum of two odd composite numbers. And it’s the atomic number of strontium. Plus, I like the way it feels.”

Ratchet laughed. “You have clearly spent far too long pondering that question.”

“I get asked it a lot. What can I say, it’s a good conversation starter. Plus, I _am_ a Praxian. Maths are practically encoded into our CNA.”

Smokescreen looked down at the cube in his hand, suddenly radiating something that might have been nervousness. It was the first time Ratchet had seen anything but relaxed flirtation from him since they had arrived at the restaurant.

“Would you mind if I asked you something personal?” he asked. “You can decline, of course, I’m just curious about something.”

“Ask away,” Ratchet replied. “I’ve been nothing but intrusive all night and you’ve been more than accommodating.”

Smokescreen looked up at Ratchet and pursed his lips. It was clear that he was considering his words carefully.

“Okay, feel free to refuse to answer. Earlier tonight at your apartment you were about as skittish as a new youngling so I need to ask, were you nervous because this your first time with an escort? Or is there something more going on? Are you one of the Purists? Or, uhm, or are you untouched? Is that what you’re worried about?”

Ratchet sat back in his chair and cycled his optics as he parsed Smokescreen’s words.

As the silence extended Smokescreen shook his head and raised his hand.

“Sorry, it was an inappropriate question. I retract it,” he said.

“No, no,” Ratchet replied and he reached out to take Smokescreen’s hand in his own. “It’s not inappropriate. I mean, this night is wonderful but it is strange. And you’re within your rights to ask what my deal is.” He vented softly before continuing. “I’m not a Purist and I’m not untouched, I’m just … Look, I had certain expectations. Certain cultural beliefs and I was thrown off when you said that my friends had bought me-”

“Had bought you a piece of shareware,” Smokescreen continued. There was no recrimination in his tone. Just acceptance. Clearly he’d been on the receiving end of this reaction before. Probably on far too many occasions.

“No, not shareware. Never shareware. Back at the apartment, that was a mistake. A slip that I wish I could take back,” Ratchet replied. He never noticed that he was still holding Smokescreen’s hand, that red digits were intertwining with blue. “I don’t like the idea that they bought me a person. I don’t like that you’ve been paid to be here and that you have no choice in the matter. I don’t like that idea that you’re only doing this because you have to.”

“Who says I have no choice in the matter?” Smokescreen asked. “I could get up and leave at any time I like. This is a job, just like any other. It has its good parts and bad. Usually the good outweighs the bad, and unlike some jobs, I actually get to _choose_ what I do. And who I do it with. I can turn down any client, so long as I have cause, and I have my nope list clearly defined in my contract. _And_ I can change it if someone suggests something new that I’m not comfortable with.” His doors fluttered against his back slightly. “So you don’t need to worry that I’m being coerced or something.”

“Okay,” Ratchet said, tone thoughtful. “What if you did quit. You gave your notice and left. What then? I mean, I thought you said that the Agency was paying for your education. If you left their employ, what then?”

Again those doors fluttered and Ratchet was now sure it was the equivalent of a shrug.

“I’m indentured to Vespertine Escorts until I pay back the Academy costs, plus a slight interest. If I were to leave, I’d have to complete the payment,” Smokescreen said, in a matter-of-fact way. “I’d need to come up with the remains of my contract or find someone else willing to take on the debt.”

“So, if you left tomorrow?” Ratchet prompted.

Smokescreen’s looked down at their entwined hand and smiled slightly before growing serious again. 

“I was cold built to be a tactician. If push came to shove I’d go back to Praxus. They’d take me back and pay off the remaining debt, no questions asked. Of course, it would come with its own price. I’d need to drop out of the Academy and join the Tactical Planning Unit as an intern, unpaid until I had worked off the new debt to the Praxian Government. There’d be no interest attached to the cost and I’d have a place to live and rations to live off of. In all honesty, I think the Praxian Ruling Council would be thrilled to have me back for that exact reason. They’re still very much into Functionism, and my failure would prove them right. I’d be made a pariah and the perfect lesson to all the younglings thinking of defying the One True Order.” 

Smokescreen sat up ramrod straight, suddenly severe and serious. “Thou shalt not defy either Form or Function. It is neither our way nor the way of the Founders themselves,” he said in a deep voice, imitating the teachings drummed into every Praxian’s processor at first activation. As soon as he was done, his posture flowed back back to something far more casual and relaxed and his voice returned to its normal flirty tones. “Yeah, it’s not much of a choice, but it is one. Actually one of seven possible choices, though the others are all pretty much too awful to contemplate on such a lovely night and in such wonderful company.”

Ratchet looked down at their entwined hands for a long moment before speaking again.

“That doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me. And I’m not sure that it makes me any more comfortable with all of this.”

Smokescreen cleared his vents in a soft, barely audible sigh. He let go of Ratchet’s hand, stood, and with a fluid grace, he moved to the other side of the table, easily slipping into the medic’s lap.

“I am _choosing_ to be here, Ratchet,” Smokescreen said, gently. “I was offered this contract and after looking into it and you, I _chose_ to be here. You seem like a nice mech and this seemed like a very nice evening. Yes, the contact specifically requested a Praxian or other winged model, but we have several flyers on staff who could have taken it if I didn’t like the deal. And just like earlier tonight, you can dismiss me at any time you want. If you’re really that uncomfortable with me being on the clock, so to speak.”

With that Smokescreen placed a chaste kiss to Ratchet’s lips.

“If I were to dismiss you right now, what would you do?” Ratchet asked, his voice barely above a whisper and his optics dim.

“You have to dismiss me to find out for sure,” Smokescreen said, then the smile faded and he shook his head. “Look, no more games, okay? Yes, I’ve been paid to be here, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not enjoying myself. I like you, Ratchet. You seem like a really nice mech, and yes, I think that we could become good friends in the right circumstances. Would I have gone on this date if my contract hadn’t been bought? Probably not, but only because the chances of us meeting is pretty slim under any other circumstances. I mean, how often do surgical residents hang out with psychology students? I think that there’d be a less than two percent chance that we’d ever meet, and even less chance that we’d speak long enough to actually get to the first date stage. But circumstances are what they are. I am greatly enjoying your company, and if you were to chose to dismiss me right now, I’d still choose to stay here with you and continue this really nice, really expensive date we’re having. At least until my next call comes in. Then I’d have to leave.”

“Is that how it works? I dismiss you and you go back onto the roster?” Ratchet asked.

“Pretty much,” Smokescreen said. “As I said back at the apartment, if you’d declined all of this, everyone would have been paid twice.”

“Even you? Or would your agency get paid twice? How does that work exactly?”

Smokescreen rested his arms on Ratchet’s shoulders. “Is that _really_ what you want to discuss right now? I mean, here I am, on your lap, in a soundproof room, more than ready to kiss you again, and you want to know how much I get paid?”

Ratchet’s optics cycled for a moment before he smiled, a cute, embarrassed little smile.

“You’re right. Silly of me.” Without wasting another moment, Ratchet kissed Smokescreen. Though chaste at first, it didn’t remain that way for long.


	3. Music

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I wrote this I was using Igor Stravinski's "The Rights of Spring" as inspiration for Blaster's music. So, if you want something to listen to while reading this chapter I would suggest anything by Stravinski. Assuming that you like his work :) I know that there tends to not be an in-between with his work.

Ratchet and Smokescreen barely arrived at the Symphonia in time to be seated. The greeter smiled in amusement as he eyed the scuff of dark blue on the side of Ratchet’s chest but said nothing; directing them to their private box in silence. 

The small room was decorated with luxury in mind - a soft, adjustable couch sat in the middle of the space, flanked by two comfortable single chairs. The walls and floors were covered with plush fabric to catch and redirect the sound and varying weights of curtains crossed over the front of the space, blocking the spectators from the stage.

“What’s with the curtains?” Ratchet asked before the greeter left the room.

The greeter turned and smiled, running a light green hand over the heavy burgundy curtains, with an almost loving reverence.

“Blaster is trying something new. He wants his music to be properly experienced and he’s discovered that asking his listeners to offline their optics for the length of the work is unrealistic. Hence the curtains.”

“Seriously?” Smokescreen asked as he fingered the heavier curtain with interest. “And I suppose that it has the added benefit of giving Blaster a certain amount of privacy as well. Stops him from getting distracted by any guests moving around in the audience.”

“Wandering, discussing, whatever,” the greeter said with a negligent wave of his hand and a shrug, though the smile did become both knowing and amused. “The curtains dampen the sound to a certain extent. Though I wouldn’t get too rowdy up here. You can’t see them, but you have neighbours on both sides. Enjoy your evening, gentlemechs. The show will be starting soon.”

The mech reached the door then turned around and motioned to a small table set with various delicacies - a box of rust dusted miniature oil cakes and cubes of sparkling energon.

“The refreshments are complimentary,by the way,” he said before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

“More food? I’m not sure that my tank can handle anything more,” Smokescreen murmured.

“Well the show is rather long. Maybe we'll have room later,” Ratchet replied before smiling and picking up one of the rust sticks and breaking off a small piece. The smile became seductive and wicked as he lifted it to Smokescreen’s lips. “Of course, it would be rude to not at least try some of it.”

“Oh, well we can’t be rude, now can we?” Smokescreen replied with a smile. He accepted the stick and as he did he captured Ratchet’s index finger with his mouth, sucking on it lightly.

Ratchet inhaled sharply as Smokescreen swirled his glossa around the tip before releasing the digit with a soft pop. The Praxian’s smile became predatory as he stepped in closer to the medic. He drew one blue finger over Ratchet’s chest, tracing the seals surrounding his windshield.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re completely adorable when you're being seductive?” Smokescreen purred. “If circumstances were different I might be sorely tempted to do horrible things to you right now.”

Ratchet took hold of Smokescreen’s hips and pulled him close. In the same move he leaned in and brushed his lips over the Praxian’s audial. 

“I’m not entirely sure that I’d object right now.”

“Good thing the show’s starting then, isn’t it?”

Smokescreen pulled away, running the tips of his fingers over Ratchet’s armour, seeming to pause slightly at every angle and join. His doors flicked up slightly, reminding the medic of a come hither glance as he took his seat.

“Anyone ever told you that you’re a horrible tease?” Ratchet asked as he sat down beside the Praxian.

“Horrible? Funny, I thought I was doing it rather well,” Smokescreen replied in a whisper as the music began to play.

The concert was incredible. It was everything Ratchet had come to expect from Blaster’s reputation. Mathematical perfection with hints of chaos running through the entire piece and fraying at the edges of the notes. A golden ratio rose and fell as order was granted to the universe only to be torn apart a moment later as new notes were added to the sequence. Music became noise, noise became function, function became all, until that all was pulled down again and again and again. It was indescribable, and as his processor tried to hold onto the parts that made logical sense, it reeled from the inherent chaos presented as art.

And if he was having problems, Smokescreen had to be having it far worse. Yes, he was different from the other Praxians that Ratchet had met, but he was still a Praxian, and his battle computer must have been glitching something fierce as it tried to organize pure chaos.

He turned to his partner for the evening to ask is he was okay, and was taken aback by the sight. Smokescreen’s optics were offline, his head tilted back slightly, his mouth open the slightest bit as he vented in time with the down beat. His doors were flared up and out, shivering slightly as the sensor panels collected all the energy patterns underlying the notes; energy patterns hat Ratchet could barely discern. And on Smokescreen’s face was a look of pure, unadulterated rapture. And in that moment, in the dim lighting and shadows cast off the curtains, he looked gorgeous.

As if sensing that he was being watched, Smokescreen turned to look at Ratchet, a small bemused smile pulling at his lips.

“What?” he asked in a breathy whisper.

“Nothing. I’m just-” He broke off with a shake of his head. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am. Are you?” Smokescreen asked.

“I am,” Ratchet replied slowly as he tried to attach words to his feelings. “I’m just having a little trouble processing the music. The chaos of it.”

Smokescreen’s smile turned compassionate. “You’re trying too hard. You need to just let yourself go. Separate yourself from your processor.”

“That doesn’t sound possible,” Ratchet said softly. “I mean, no offense to Blaster, the work’s incredible, but every time I try to follow one track, I get distracted by the three others strains. It’s a little overwhelming. … I keep thinking that it’d be easier to follow if I got drunk …”

“Well, that might be the purpose of the sparkling high grade,” Smokescreen said with a chuckle. “But I might be able to offer a different way to relax and let go. If you trust me?”

Ratchet looked at Smokescreen, taking in that small seductive pull of the Praxian’s lips and the slight twitch of his doors. He had no reason to not trust the escort. Of course, he also had no real reason to trust him either. He just wanted to. He really wanted to. The hitch in his intakes was barely audible as he nodded.

Smokescreen moved in closer to Ratchet until he was almost sitting in the medic’s lap.

“Offline your optics and let me help you relax. You just need to give yourself over to the experience,” Smokescreen murmured into Ratchet’s audio as he placed one gentle hand on his knee.

“We’re in public,” Ratchet whispered, but the burr fritzing in his vocalizer was betraying his rising desire.

“We’re in a private box, surrounded by curtains,” Smokescreen replied. “I promise that I won’t do anything to embarrass you. Or get us kicked out. Just sit back, offline your optics, and relax. I promise I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

Ratchet nodded and did as he was bade, letting out a slightly shaky breath as he did.

Blaster’s music continued, rising and falling in a wild, almost manic rhythm. As the music swelled, Ratchet felt Smokescreen’s fingers begin to trace over the exposed mechanisms in his knee, mapping every edge and seam and join. A second hand began to trace over his other knee before moving up his thighs. The movements were slow and precise, yet somehow perfectly in time with the music. Fingers massaged their way over his legs, covering every surface with a teasingly light touch. 

At the very gentle nudge of Smokescreen’s hands pressing at his knees, Ratchet spread his legs and felt Smokescreen slip between them. They probably shouldn’t be doing this. After all, they could be interrupted at any time, or if things were going where he thought they were … Ratchet knew that he could get loud when things were good, and he suspected that Smokescreen would be good.

“You might want to offline your vocalizer, sweet spark,” Smokescreen murmured as if reading Ratchet’s processor. “I’m on channel 42-Zeta-87-b. Tell me if you want me to stop at any time.”

Ratchet’s optics onlined just in time to see Smokescreen nestled between his thighs, a wicked grin pulling at his lips as he leaned in to blow a hot puff of air over Ratchet’s closed panel.

Ratchet gasped at the sensation and offlined his vocalizer but kept looking down at Smokescreen.

“Offline your optics too. After all, this is about you experiencing the music properly. You can’t do that fully if you’re busy watching me and what I’m about to do to you,” Smokescreen purred.

Ratchet nodded as he offlined his optics, suddenly very, very glad he’d disengaged his vocalizer as another hot breath ghosted over his panel. Gentle fingers moved over his plating - thighs, midriff, back to thighs, and teasing over an increasingly warm panel. Hands ghosted over to his hips, pressing him into the soft cushion with surprisingly strong hands. Smokescreen’s movements were slow and gentle as he teased Ratchet’s port cover open with fingers and lips.

Ratchet gasped silently as Smokescreen’s glossa flicked out to lick his hot port, hands coming down on Smokescreen’s wrists. He felt more than heard the low chuckle as his hands were gently moved to his sides, the motion a slight admonition to keep his hands to himself.

Smokescreen was good. More than good. He worked Ratchet’s port in perfect time with the music’s downbeat and soon that was all Ratchet knew. Music and sensation. Each note flashing brightly in his offlined optics. His processor stopped trying to follow the music and just did as he lost himself in every moment of bliss. He was filled pleasure, his calipers cycling down rhythmically in time with Smokescreen’s ministrations as the Praxian seemed to hum in time with the music. His spark thickened his his chest as his internal receiver prepared for a hardline connection and his entire world compressed to something that was logically indefinable.

Notes rose and fell. Smokescreen licked, suckled, nibbled, consuming Ratchet utterly and suddenly that pinprick of awareness exploded out as Smokescreen expanded his own field and ghosted it against the edge of Ratchet’s own. And not for the first time, Ratchet was dimly aware that it really had been a good idea to turn off his vocalizer. Overload ripped through his systems - calipers cycling down on nothing as they tried to force a nonexistent plug into place, spark reaching out for a connection that wasn’t quite in reach. Smokescreen’s mouth formed a firm suction over Ratchet’s port, and finger traced over seams as he soothed the medic through his overload.

Ratchet was sure that his engine and cooling systems were roaring loud enough to drown out the music, but as he came back to himself, as he became aware of his surroundings again, he realized that the music was still playing and there was no indication that they were disturbing anyone.

“Better?” Smokescreen asked, still kneeling between Ratchet’s knees, a smile pulling at his lips as he pulled a cloth from subspace and cleaned some spilled lubricant off of the medic’s thighs..

“Yeah, I -” Ratchet broke off with a slight frown as he realized that the music was no longer causing his processor to fritz. “Yeah, I am. How did you do that?”

Smokescreen’s smile became predatory as he moved seductively up into Ratchet’s lap.

“I would think that a medic, no matter how new, wouldn’t need a lesson in what I just did,” he said before kissing Ratchet deeply.

Ratchet shivered as he tasted his own lubricant on Smokescreen’s lips and glossa.

“No, I mean,” he began as he finally pulled away, “how did you manage to so thoroughly distract my processor? Even now the music isn’t fritzing me up. It really is quite beautiful when you stop trying to categorize it.”

“I think you just answered your own question,” Smokescreen replied. “There’s a psychological theory that suggests that we can reprogram our own personal outlook with the right conditions and stimuli. I distracted you and you allowed yourself to listen to the music with something other than your logical centers. Once you started, you didn’t stop.”

“Practicing your lessons on me?” Ratchet asked, and it was clear in his tone that he was teasing.

“Maybe,” Smokescreen replied with a genuine grin. “It could have been worse. At least I’m focusing on behavioural theories rather than true reprogramming.”

Ratchet chuckled and pulled Smokescreen as close as their frames would allow. Blaster’s music swelled back up into the third movement of his opus, and the lights in the small space began to shift and break from a clear white to a rainbow spectrum that swirled and coloured the walls and curtains with splashes of near-imagery. Smokescreen leaned against his chest comfortably, his optics dimmed and his doors swaying slightly in time with the music.

This felt very comfortable, especially in the afterglow of overload, and Ratchet decided it really was a good thing that his friends had surprised him with this gift.


	4. and Dancing

Ratchet and Smokescreen returned to the medic’s apartment, hand in hand.

“This really was fun,” Smokescreen said as they approached the door. “In fact I think it’s one of the best nights I’ve had in a long time.”

“I’m glad,” Ratchet murmured. 

He slowed and pulled Smokescreen close, placing one hand on the small of the Praxian’s back. He traced his thumb over the seam of Smokescreen’s waist pivot as he leaned in for a kiss.

“Your neighbour is probably still watching us.” Smokescreen’s voice was low and breathless as he pulled away slightly.

“Let him watch,” Ratchet growled before kissing Smokescreen again, deep and hard and possessing.

Smokescreen leaned into the kiss, mewling softly as he tried to press their bodies together as close as their root modes would allow.

“Damned chest,” Smokescreen muttered when he finally pulled away. “Always in the way.”

“I like your chest,” Ratchet murmured. He reached behind himself clumsily, fumbling for the door lock pad. “I like how it frames your headlights. I like how smooth your hood is. And I especially like your bumper.” This last was whispered as he traced his free hand over and then under Smokescreen’s bumper in a languid caress.

“Oh for Primus sake!” Tailgunner’s voice came from within the opposite apartment, floating out like audial fury. “If you’re going to do that then take your little rootkit piece of shareware out of the halls! _Some_ of us actually care about our environment and don’t want to be exposed to his kind of _filth_!”

Ratchet’s optics narrowed angrily as he glared at the door. He had barely taken one step toward it, when Smokescreen’s hand came up to rest on his arm.

“Don’t,” the Praxian said softly. “Seriously, it’s not worth it.”

“He called you rootkit!” Ratchet hissed. “He needs to be put straight!”

“Exactly. He called _me_ rootkit,” Smokescreen replied, calmly. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me, Ratchet, and I don’t consider this particular battle worth fighting. Not when we’ve had such a lovely evening. If you go over there and _set him right_ he’ll just end up calling the guards and then there will be explanations, and charges, and tension. And I can think of a much better way to spend the rest of our night.”

Ratchet growled, glaring at the opposite door for a moment longer before deflating slightly.

“Fine,” he said, irritation and resignation vying for control of his tone. “Fine.” He turned and keyed in his code, motioning into the apartment as soon as the door slid open.

Smokescreen swept into the space, his doors high and flirty as he almost sashayed past Ratchet. He turned as soon as the door was closed and smiled at the medic, but the smile faded as soon as he saw the sour look on Ratchet’s face.

“You’re angry,” Smokescreen stated. He sat on Ratchet’s couch and patted the space next to him. “Come sit. Let’s talk this out before it corrodes.”

Ratchet seemed about to argue the point before sighing and taking a seat near - but not next to - Smokescreen.

“You really are upset over this,” Smokescreen said sympathetically. “Okay. So let’s talk about it. The rest of the night will be pretty dismal if we don’t get this out.”

Ratchet seemed about to protest. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, and opened it again, before pursing his lips and looking away. Smokescreen was more than willing to give the mech the time he needed. After all, they had all night, and he wanted this to be the best possible experience for Ratchet. He had a reputation to maintain. That and he really did find himself liking the medic.

The silence stretched on for a long moment before Ratchet finally looked back and took Smokescreen’s hand in his own.

“I really don’t like that you just accept that he called you-” Ratchet cut himself off and shook his head. “You shouldn’t be accepting that kind of treatment.”

Smokescreen’s smile was amused and brief. He rapidly schooled his features back to neutrality.

“Ratchet, there are two ways I can react when faced with that kind of hatred. I can react. I can rail against him and scream and fight. And that will result in him calling the guards and me ending up in jail. Or worse. So I keep my head down, and I let the words roll off my finish. I know my own worth. Does it make me sad? Yes. Does it hurt? Yes. But I learned a long time ago, I can’t let myself give into what I want to do.”

Ratchet was not buying any of it. He shook his head, but Smokescreen brought red fingers up to his lips, effectively cutting off the medic before he could speak.

“You are going to be a great medic one day, Ratchet of Iacon. In fact, I’ll wage good hard credits that you’ll be one of the best one day.” Smokescreen kissed one finger and then another. “But you won’t be able to do that with a record hanging over you.” Another kiss on another finger. “And trust me, your neighbour is just the type to press charges and make them stick.” Smokescreen kissed Ratchet’s pinkie before kissing the back of his hand.

“Yeah, I know,” Ratchet sighed. “I know. But I can’t help but be enraged. And I-”

With surprising speed Smokescreen moved to straddle Ratchet’s lap and leaned in to kiss him.

“Ratch,” Smokescreen said, an infinite amount of tenderness filling the word. “Ratch, I get it. But if you dwell on this, it’ll consume you and I can think of so many better things to do tonight.”

“Are you going to keep distracting me every time I try to rail against Tailgunner?” Ratchet asked as he brought his hands up to stroke Smokescreen’s waist pivot.

“I might,” Smokescreen replied with a wicked little smile. “Or I might have to get more creative with my distractions.”

“And my reasoning for stopping is…?” Ratchet’s smile was equally wicked.

Smokescreen crossed his arm to cushion his bumper and leaned in over Ratchet’s chest until he was resting comfortably.

“Well,” he said slowly, “you already know how creative I can be when I’m trying to distract you. Just imagine all the wonderful things I could do if I really let go and started focusing on something more … _interesting_?”

Ratchet shuddered slightly at that last word. Smokescreen had somehow managed to modulate his voice in such a way that it sent such pleasant vibrations right to Ratchet’s core.

“How did you do that?” he whispered.

“I’m full of all kinds of tricks,” Smokescreen purred. “You want to see more of them?”

As he asked the question, he shifted slightly and created a gentle friction between their closed arrays.

Ratchet’s engine actually stalled at that, all thoughts of Tailgunner swept away.

“Can we? I mean, wouldn’t a hardline be, uhm …”

“Be what?” Smokescreen asked as he trailed kisses along Ratchet’s jaw and down his neck. “Be too intimate? I think we’re well past that now, darling. And if you’re afraid of unwanted data access, my firewalls are top notch and I’m nothing if not discrete.”

“I’m not worried about you looking. I have nothing to hide.” Ratchet’s voice was filled with the buzz of rising lust. 

He ran his hand up Smokescreen’s side, lighting up sensors and sending shivers up the Praxian’s spinal strut.

“Everyone has something to hide, but it’s cute that you think you don’t,” Smokescreen whispered when he regained his voice.

He arched into Ratchet’s touch and bore down on his lap.

“I have been thinking about this all night,” Smokescreen whispered. “I’ve been kind of fantasizing about how good you’d feel in my port from the moment you answered your door.”

Ratchet growled at that and pulled the Praxian close.

“Open,” he ordered, “Please?” It was added almost as an afterthought and Smokescreen couldn’t help but chuckle as he did exactly was was asked of him.

Smokescreen slowly allowed his optics to offline, giving himself over to the sensation of Ratchet’s hands moving over his plating. His hands were strong enough to rip the plating off a mech and yet were capable of repairing the most delicate of wires and circuitry. The thought was more than enough to send a shiver of anticipation through Smokescreen’s body.

“What?” Ratchet whispered, his exploration of Smokescreen’s chest slowing slightly.

Smokescreen shook his head. “Nothing. I just realized that I might have an ever so slight Medic-fetish.” As he spoke, he ground his open and oh-so-ready port down onto Ratchet’s lap. “I was thinking about all the wonderful possibilities in those delightful hands of yours.”

Ratchet grinned in response and slowly - painfully slowly - moved his hands down Smokescreen’s body, continuing to trace over the joins in his plating and teasing the wires and seals he could easily reach. Smokescreen made a soft noise of frustrated protest before leaning in to glare at Ratchet.

“I don’t like being teased, Doc,” Smokescreen said in a low, husky growl.

Ratchet’s hands stilled at Smokescreen’s hips, thumbs circling languidly over his abdominal plating.

“Funny that the tease can’t stand to be teased,” Ratchet whispered as he leaned in to place a soft kiss to Smokescreen’s lips. “I think I’m liking that look in your optics. And since we have all night …”

Smokescreen’s optics narrowed. “Maybe I should add _no teasing_ to my nope list.”

Ratchet made a thoughtful sound as he contemplated that.

“Adding a negative to a negative list … So I guess that means I should continue to tease you then?”

As Ratchet spoke, his grin widened and with the last word he activated the sensors in Smokescreen’s waist seals, creating a warm tickle of sensation just under the plating. 

“What-?” Smokescreen’s question was cut off as he stiffened. The tickle began to crawl up his sides, infecting all the plating around him. It wasn’t unpleasant in any way - or it likely wouldn’t have been for any other mech - but Smokescreen went from still to writhing in an in an instant, nearly falling off of Ratchet’s lap.

Ratchet smiled wickedly as he continued to tickle Smokescreen. The Praxian’s optics were flickering, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he fought the urge to yell, and his doors were shivering spasmodically. It was an incredibly erotic sight and Ratchet was enjoying every second of it.

Smokescreen opened his mouth but only static came out and his fingers began to scratch weakly at Ratchet’s arms. Then, without any warning, Smokescreen’s field flared out, hitting Ratchet hard and sharp.

“ _Stop!_ ” he managed to finally yell out. “Please!” The last was added as a small, pleading whisper.

Ratchet froze, instantly cancelling the sensations he had been creating.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think that … are you okay?”

Smokescreen nodded slowly, his optics offline, his engines straining, as his fans tried to cool his overheating systems.

“I’m fine,” Smokescreen said softly. “I just didn’t realize just how much I dislike tickling.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ratchet replied, reaching out to touch Smokescreen’s arm, then pulled away slowly.

Smokescreen offlined his optics, sighed deeply and centred himself. After a moment, he turned back to Ratchet and smiled.

“It’s okay, Ratch,” he said. He reached out and brushed his fingers over Ratchet’s cheek. “Seriously. You didn’t know. Even I didn’t know. And you stopped when I asked. No harm. No foul. Right?”

Ratchet was silent for a long moment before finally nodding. “As long as you’re sure. I want this to be good for you. I don’t want you to think that I’m just using you.”

Smokescreen shook his head, bemused, and chuckled softly. “You are the most unusual mech I have ever met, Ratchet.”

He slipped back over to the medic, straddling his lap lightly. “I just don’t know how it’s possible that someone could be that concerned with the needs and desires of a complete stranger.”

Ratchet pulled Smokescreen close, placing his hands carefully on the Praxian’s waist and arching his hips slightly in a seductive little bump.

“You aren’t a stranger, Smokescreen,” Ratchet replied and he shook his head, dismissing Smokescreen’s disbelieving look. “We’ve spent the whole night talking and I know everything I need to know about you. I know that you have the mental and emotional fortitude to break away from a system that’s been in place for millennia. I know that you care about the well being of others and that you plan on changing the system of psychology on this world. I know that you can’t stand injustice and that you’re quick to call out a hypocrite. And I know that -”

Ratchet was cut off as Smokescreen swept in to kiss him hard and deep. Smokescreen’s hands moved almost feverishly over Ratchet’s plating and his field reached out to meet Ratchet’s. There was a deep feeling of need in that field hiding something underneath it, but Ratchet was in no state to suss out what the other feeling was. In that moment, as Smokescreen ground down against his closed interface panel, all Ratchet wanted to do was complete the connection he had been wanting almost all night.

“My doors …” Smokescreen murmured as he broke the kiss, his hands clumsily guiding Ratchet up to the appendages. “I really like have them touched.”

Ratchet barely heard the request over his own roaring fans, but he got the point as Smokescreen resettled his hands on those broad doors. Sensitive fingers moved over the front, tracing over the 38s before smoothing their way over the bottom edge. He could feel them vibrating with need, practically buzzing against his fingers. Smokescreen’s optics had darkened to an almost midnight blue, his mouth open slightly as a soft whimper of need escaped, as he rocked his hips over Ratchet’s panel. Insistent almost to the point of desperation.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Ratch …”

Ratchet allowed his panel to iris open and his cable instantly began to pressurize. Smokescreen’s hand slipped between them and with no further foreplay, he guided the cable into his oh-so-ready port.

Smokescreen managed to be both tight and perfect as his calipers spasmed rhythmically around Ratchet’s cable. Smokescreen leaned forward and, in a surprisingly intimate move, pressed his chevron to Ratchet’s as he slowly rode the medic, working them both to a connection.

“Primus, Smokey,” Ratchet murmured as his hands mapped their way over those broad doors. “... so perfect …”

Ratchet was in a state of pure bliss in that moment. Nothing could be better than this, and then the connection was made and it was. Smokescreen stiffened and arched above him as data packets flew across the link at the speed of thought. Flashes of their lives were bared for the other to see -- classes, friends, moments of pain and passion. Ratchet’s mind was filled with what little Smokescreen was willing to share. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said his firewalls were top notch, but the way doors were suddenly closing on him, it was clear that Smokescreen wasn’t quite as in control as he would have liked. There was pain there. And fear. And a small silver Praxian that was pulled back as soon as the thought materialized. Ratchet was sure he wasn’t being anywhere near as careful, and he didn’t care. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’s had nothing to hide.

Smokescreen’s field brushed across Ratchet’s own, his spark energy seeking a different connection. It was probably something they shouldn’t be doing - after all, spark connections were only for those in the lasting relationship of conjux endura - but that knowledge didn’t stop their fields from meeting and melding, even if their sparks didn’t.

Time slowed to stopping and all that was and all that ever would be was the two of them in this moment as their worlds spiraled into a pinprick of existence. Neither knew or cared how long that moment lasted. All that mattered was the sudden explosion as they both overloaded. Hard. Sending them both tumbling into recharge.

\---

It was funny how the passage of time seemed to change depending on what was happening. Hours seemed to pass far more rapidly than they should have and before Smokescreen and Ratchet knew it, the evening had ended.

Smokescreen’s fingers moved over Ratchet’s windshield and he smiled slightly.

“This was really nice,” he murmured, “but I’m going to need to go soon.”

Ratchet took Smokescreen’s hand and brought the blue fingers to his lips for a gentle kiss.

“You could wash up here,” he said, “Stay a little longer?”

“I wish I could, but I need to get back to be checked out,” Smokescreen replied. He pulled away and began to get up, but then seemed to change his mind as he leaned back in for another kiss.

“Checked out?” Ratchet asked when the kiss ended.

“It’s protocol. Whenever a contract ends in interfacing I need to be checked out. Make sure my firewalls are still intact. Make sure nothing was, uhm, _deposited_.”

“I’m clean. And I’d never try to hack your systems.”

“I know. But it’s protocol. A non negotiable stipulation of my employment.” Smokescreen handed Ratchet a card. “But I really did have a good time, and I’d like to see you again. If you’re interested.”

Ratchet looked down at the card. It contained the contact information for Vespertine Escorts.

“I, uhm, I’d love to, Smokescreen, but I’m still a medical intern. I really can’t- I mean, this was really nice, but the cost is, uhm-”

“Turn it over,” Smokescreen said, and his smile was both seductive and amused.

Ratchet did as he was bade and instantly saw Smokescreen’s personal contact information on the back, written in neat, middle-Cybertronian glyphs.

“Is this, I mean, are you allowed to see people on your own time?”

Smokescreen’s doors lifted and fluttered in a shrug and a nod. “My time off the clock is my own, and I can spend it with whomever I like. Strictly speaking, I probably shouldn’t get involved with a client, but the rules don’t _actually_ state that I can’t see clients on my own time. I like you Ratchet of Iacon. And I think I’d like to get to know you better.”

“I’d like that too,” Ratchet replied.

“Good. I’m off shift in three cycles. Maybe we can get together for a drink. There’s a really good little hole in the plating pub not too far from campus. We can meet when I’m done my classes for the day. And then … well, we can see what then.”

Ratchet smiled and pulled Smokescreen in for one final kiss.

“You know this is probably a mistake, right?” Ratchet asked, though there was more than a hint of amusement in his tone.

“More than likely,” Smokescreen replied. “But it’ll be a fun one while it lasts!” 

With that he released Ratchet’s hand and slipped out the door. Yes, Ratchet was definitely going to have to thank Springheel for his graduation present.


End file.
